


Inappropriate Behaviour

by Joodiff



Series: Joodiff's adult WtD fic from FFN [6]
Category: Waking the Dead (TV)
Genre: Adult Content, F/M, Outdoor Sex, Woman on Top
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-28
Updated: 2015-07-28
Packaged: 2018-04-11 18:19:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4446722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Joodiff/pseuds/Joodiff
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Boyd and Grace are on their way back to the car after examining a shallow grave in Epping Forest. Unfortunately, they get distracted en route... (Formerly posted on FFN.)</p>
<p>
  <i>Adult content. Don't like, don't read.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Inappropriate Behaviour

**Dedication:** _for those of you who are as unapologetically fond of such harmless naughtiness as the author is…_

**DISCLAIMER:** I own nothing.

* * *

 

**Inappropriate Behaviour**

By Joodiff

* * *

 

Epping Forest, on a bright, warm, sunny summer afternoon. Detective Superintendent Peter Boyd and Doctor Grace Foley, both from the Metropolitan Police’s Cold Case Unit, are heading back to the former’s car after the careful perusal of a recently-discovered and absolutely archetypal shallow grave, from which the unfortunate and decomposed occupant has just that morning been removed. Predictably enough, as they walk through the trees at a leisurely pace they are also arguing in a bantering, not altogether serious manner.

“Oh, come on. You know as well as I do that this is the biggest unofficial cemetery in – “

“Yes, but all I’m saying is – “

“You’re not actually saying anything, Grace. You’re just being pedantic to piss me off.”

“Pissing you off is just the icing on the cake, Boyd. What I’m…” Grace breaks off, stops and says, “Oh.”

Boyd, just a little behind her, doesn’t register her abrupt halt fast enough to avoid the inevitable impact, and his impetus causes her to sway slightly, a little unbalanced. Irritably, he says, “What… oh.”

Oh, indeed. The young man scowling up at them both is perhaps nineteen or twenty, with cropped dark hair, and the kind of patchy stubble that suggests he’s trying, but generally failing, to grow a beard. His blue shirt is unbuttoned and his jeans are round his ankles. The young lady lying beneath him on the luxuriant, sun-dappled grass is wearing considerably less than her partner. She appears to be of a similar age to him, but her expression is one of utter horror and mortification rather than hostility. Despite some well-concealed amusement, Grace feels instantly sorry for her.

Aggressively, the young man demands, “What the…? Piss off, will ya?”

Grace momentarily wonders what Boyd’s reaction will be. She doesn’t have long to wait to find out. Surprisingly, his tone is extremely mild as he asks, “Enjoying yourself?”

The young man disengages, quickly scrabbling to make himself decent before jumping lightly to his feet and saying belligerently, “What the fuck’s it got to do with you, grandpa…?”

Grace knows exactly what’s going to happen next, and she’s absolutely right. Boyd produces his warrant card and holds it up for perusal. Still sounding very mild he says, “Outraging public decency? Behaviour likely to cause a breach of the peace? Go on, sling your hook while I’m still in a good mood.”

The young man’s antagonism rapidly fades away, and it seems neither of the youngsters needs to be told twice. There is more embarrassed scrabbling and scrambling, followed by a swift and very red-faced departure.

“’Sling your hook’?” Grace says, eyebrows slightly raised as the sheepish pair disappear into the trees, finally completely vanishing from sight. “You’re channelling Jack Regan again, aren’t you, Boyd?”

“You have no idea how disappointed I am that I didn’t get to say ‘you’re nicked’.”

Deadpan, she says, “You really shouldn’t watch all those late night repeats, you know.”

“What else am I supposed to do while you’re poring over your damned papers?”

“Are we feeling a little neglected?” Grace asks him lightly.

Boyd’s reply is a very definite growl. “Piss off.”

She smiles serenely at him. “Give me the time off I keep asking for, and I wouldn’t have to work so late every night just to keep my publisher happy, would I?”

“What about keeping _me_ happy?” Boyd complains, and she suspects that his suddenly hangdog expression is not entirely feigned.

With an elaborate sigh she responds, “I spend my entire life keeping you happy, Boyd.”

He glowers. “Yeah? How come I’ve spent the last fortnight walking round with a permanent bloody hard-on, then?”

Smartly, she says, “You should see a doctor about that, you know.”

“Oh, very good, _Doctor_ Foley. Ten out of ten.”

Grace gives him a deliberately limpid smile. “Thank you.”

She knows how impulsive he can be, but it still catches her by surprise when he abruptly catches hold of her waist, pulls her against him and kisses her hard. Normally Boyd is far more circumspect during working hours. But perhaps it’s the warmth of the day, the influence of the young couple so recently caught _in flagrante delicto_ , or just his apparently genuine frustration that’s responsible for his uncharacteristic behaviour. Whatever the reason, Grace can’t think of any particular reason to protest, so she simply makes the most of the unusual opportunity for a little inappropriate behaviour.

It surprises her even more, however, when instead of pulling away completely, he transfers his mouth to her neck, teeth gently grazing her skin. It’s enjoyable, certainly, but it’s hardly the kind of conduct expected from either of them. Pointedly, Grace taps him firmly on the shoulder. “Time and place, Boyd?”

Boyd grumbles, but he reluctantly releases her and backs off. Grace doesn’t miss the intense look in his dark eyes, and it causes a very familiar flutter of excitement in the pit of her stomach. She suppresses it quickly, keeps her expression composed and slightly amused. “Cold shower for you as soon as possible, I think, Detective Superintendent.”

“Trust me, it has absolutely no effect,” Boyd says dryly.

They start walking again. It’s very quiet, very peaceful. Grace wonders how many other people are also wandering through the trees, enjoying the summer afternoon. There’s no sign of anyone else, no noise apart from birdsong and the occasional whisper of a light breeze in the trees. Thinking of the young couple they inadvertently disturbed, she chuckles quietly.

Boyd gives her a sideways look. “What’s so funny?”

“I was remembering the look on that girl’s face. Oh, dear… the things we do when we’re young.”

“Youth has nothing to do with it.”

Grace has no trouble interpreting his sly undertone. “For goodness’ sake, Boyd. You’re not a horny teenager.”

“Actually – “

“Stop it,” she warns him without any ire. “You’re a middle-aged police officer with a bad back, and a stack of urgent paperwork waiting for you back at the office.”

Boyd shakes his head despondently. “My head’s listening, Grace, but my balls aren’t.”

“No surprise there, then,” Grace says promptly. She keeps walking, adds, “Anyway, you’re not the _al fresco_ type.”

“Is that right?”

There’s a hint of challenge in his voice. One she thinks it’s probably safe to ignore. “You could give the proverbial princess and her pea a run for her money, and you know it. Who was it who made the hotel move us three times before he was happy the last time we went away?”

“The manager pissed me off.”

Grace affects a look of astonishment. “No? Really?”

Boyd’s reply is an incomprehensible growl. Grace can’t decipher the words, but most of them don’t sound polite. Smiling inwardly to herself, she ignores the muted diatribe and keeps heading in what she’s fairly sure is the general direction of Boyd’s car. Probably, leaving the main paths wasn’t the best idea they could have had, but she doesn’t have any particular sensation of being lost.

Eventually, Boyd mutters, “I’m going to hunt him down and kill him, you know. Your publisher. I’m going to snap his scrawny neck with my bare hands, and bury him in quicklime.”

“DSI Boyd, I’m shocked,” Grace says, absolutely deadpan. “Hang your head in shame. Quicklime, indeed. I can see that I’m going to have to ask Eve to give you the Forensics 101 lecture again.”

“The quicklime was metaphorical, Grace.”

“And the neck-snapping?”

“No, I meant that bit.”

She can’t help laughing. “For God’s sake…”

Boyd stops abruptly and catches her wrist, bringing her to a standstill, too. His grip isn’t hard enough to be uncomfortable, but it isn’t going to be easily shaken off. When she looks at him, Grace can see no sign of her own gentle amusement, and for a moment she’s startled by the way he’s looking at her so intently. Something about that look causes a traitorous shiver to run up and down her spine. Sensing that it would be extremely unwise to continue to tease him, she simply says, “Look, if you’re really that upset about it, why don’t we go out for dinner tonight and then go back to your place? No books, no papers, no distractions.”

The suggestion seems to placate him a little because he releases his grip as he says gruffly, “You think I’m being unreasonable?”

Grace bites back her instinctive reaction and thinks carefully about her answer for several moments. Slowly, she shakes her head. “Actually, no. No, I don’t think you are. But we’ve always had to work at finding time for ourselves – “

“Because I work too hard? Old news, Grace. Old news.”

Grace backs up a few paces and says quietly, “Stop trying to pick a fight, Boyd. That’s not what I was going to say. I’m not like you; I can’t work practically every hour God sends and still – “

Again he interrupts her. “Come here.”

“What?”

“Come. Here.”

The instruction is very simple and very firm, and it immediately creates a conflict inside her. She instinctively bridles at the imperious edge of command in his voice, but it’s unusual enough in their private lives to be faintly, if regrettably, exciting. High-handed Boyd may often be in his working role, but behind closed doors he is a far more egalitarian creature. Maybe that’s why – against her better judgement – Grace slowly steps forward again, watching him carefully.

This time, he’s far gentler, both in the way he embraces her, and the way he kisses her. Thorough, yes, but gentle. When he raises his head, his voice is equally gentle, but it has a slight, raw edge to it as he says, “You drive me crazy, woman. In every possible way… Christ, I want you…”

Grace doesn’t doubt him. She can feel the veracity of his words pressed hard against her stomach. And for a single, insane moment she’s tempted. Genuinely tempted. But common sense immediately takes over. She kisses him softly, making a silent promise of the light caress of her lips. She says, “Your house. Later. No distractions.”

Boyd doesn’t argue. Not verbally. Instead, he returns to a slow and very sensuous exploration of her mouth with his own. Grace allows herself to respond, but she fights down the instinctive desire to let her hands start wandering. She keeps her palms firmly on his shoulders, and when he grinds his hips deliberately against her, she fights back the urge to moan into his mouth. Again, he moves to her neck, and if her hands are still, his certainly aren’t. When she feels him start to gently massage her breast, Grace knows it’s time to call a halt to the proceedings. She also knows he doesn’t deal well with rejection, and she’s gentle as she says, “Later, Peter, I promise... Come on, we told Spence we’d only be a couple of hours…”

He doesn’t cease his ministrations. If anything, they become more focused, more heated. Against her neck he says, “So? He’s a DI for God’s sake; he doesn’t need his hand held.”

Becoming slightly irritated by his persistence, she asks, “What on earth’s got into you today? We’re not doing this. _I’m_ not doing this.”

He nips her throat. “Where’s your sense of adventure?”

“It disappeared about thirty years ago.”

“Liar.”

“Boyd…”

The reply is pitched somewhere deep in the lower registers. “Grace.”

That tone speaks volumes, and it always has a bad effect on her equilibrium. A little weakly, she says, “Anyone could walk past and see us.”

“True,” Boyd says laconically, nuzzling warmly against her skin. It’s quite clear he’s not interested in listening to her objections.

“What happened to outraging public decency and behaviour likely to cause a breach of the peace?” Grace complains, but her heart-rate has speeded up considerably, and she’s fairly sure he’s very well aware of it.

Boyd’s answering grin can only be described as predatory. There is simply not another word for it. Before she can object any further, he takes her hand again, starts into motion, tugging gently until she unwillingly follows, and when he halts, she understands. They haven’t moved very much deeper into the trees, but suddenly they are nowhere near as exposed.

_This is insane,_ Grace thinks. _For God’s sake, I’m far too old for this… We’re both far too old for this…_ But what she says is, “You’re completely incorrigible, you know that, don’t you?”

Far too nonchalantly, he leans himself against the nearest tree and pulls her against him. There’s mischief in his eyes; mischief, amusement, and a very healthy glint of pure lasciviousness. “And you love it.”

She does. Sometimes. There’s something about his impetuosity, his audacity that has always appealed to her, perhaps because it’s so very different to her own natural composure and prudence. He is as tumultuous as she is serene, as fiery and quick-tempered as she is calm and rational. It seems that opposites really do attract. This time, it is Grace who takes the initiative, finding his mouth hotly with her own, and it doesn’t surprise her at all that despite the heat of the afternoon he literally shivers, just for a moment, and the involuntary reaction is a powerful incentive to continue. Not breaking the kiss, she goes to work on his shirt buttons, relishing the smooth warmth of the skin beneath the thin fabric.

Her initial reluctance forgotten, Grace applies herself whole-heartedly to one of her favourite pastimes – reminding him of at least one of the reasons why he always ends up back at her side, no matter what happens, how capricious he chooses to be, or how much they fight. Reminding him that she may not keep him tightly leashed – but leashed he most certainly is. By his own choice. He catches his breath sharply, and curses as she bites his neck, low enough for the collar of his shirt to hide any mark she may leave, but the fillip of pain has the desired effect, making his languid explorations suddenly far hotter, and much more intense.

Unashamedly, Grace drops her hand to his belt buckle, and then even lower, blatantly fondling the hard, familiar contours of him before finding and lowering his zip. The button she releases too, but she leaves his belt untouched, choosing instead to simply work her way around the faintly irritating obstacle of his shorts until she can set free the impatient object of her attention. Freed from confinement, his cock rears into her hand, arrogantly, desperately hard, and as she strokes its length, she quite deliberately looks straight into his eyes without saying a single word. The stray muscle that twitches in Boyd’s cheek tells her that he’s grinding his teeth, and that makes her grin. She likes the power she has over him. She likes it a lot.

The tables abruptly turn again as he asserts himself, and suddenly she’s the one who’s trembling as he forces his way through inconvenient layers of clothing to reach between her thighs with fingers that are gentle enough, but wickedly skilful. This is most certainly a two-way street – and both of them are well aware of what the other can do. The arena may be unusual, but the game is one they know very well indeed.

With surprising agility for a man of his age, he bears them both down onto the soft, warm grass, but Grace doesn’t miss the fact that he, unlike the young man of earlier, is enough of a gentleman to take the relative discomfort of the lower position. Supine beneath her, he’s grinning madly, and Grace is fairly sure that he’s grinning at the complete impropriety of the whole situation. This is very definitely something they should not be doing in working hours, if at all. It’s not something she wants to start thinking about again, either, so she finds something to distract her. His belt buckle is an ideal diversion, and once she’s freed it, he obliging raises his hips enough for her to quickly drag both his shorts and his trousers to mid-thigh.

Grace reaches for him again, but to her surprise he stops her, firmly catching her wrist and holding it. In the direct sunlight his eyes seem to glow, intense and tigerish. His voice is husky as he says, “I want you. Now.”

Boyd is not usually so hasty, but then this is a wholly unusual situation, and, Grace is forced to admit, there is some truth to his dark mutterings about how little time she’s had for him just recently. She isn’t altogether against the idea of acquiescing to his impatience – there’s a lot to be said for the times when he abandons elegance and expertise in favour of simple, bullish, recklessness. And she’s more than a little edgy herself, a very warm, distinctive ache pervading her body. There are a few moments of rather undignified mutual struggling with recalcitrant items of clothing – the subject of some chuckling and cursing from them both – and then there’s the tiny pause where she gazes into his eyes and he gazes steadily back. It remains unspoken, the message passing between them, but it’s absolutely clear, and absolutely mutual – this may be about lust, but that lust, keen as it is, is firmly grounded in love, respect and simple kinship.

The power is suddenly hers again, and she’s more than happy to enjoy it, to make the most of it. Her world has dwindled to the immediate space around her and the man beneath her, and Grace isn’t thinking about anything else. Whether either of them would actually notice if an entire procession of ramblers chose that moment to saunter by is open to debate. There’s a lot of intent in the way she rubs herself against him, half for the intense sensation the contact engenders, half just to see the sheer, hungry frustration in Boyd’s expression. He’s not the sort of man who enjoys taking a submissive role, and she knows exactly how much it grates on him to let her set the pace this far down the road. In fact, she’s certain he’s fighting a strong rear-guard action against the impulse to flip her over and assume the dominant position. But he won’t. She knows he won’t. It’s extremely rare for him to make any concession to age – his or hers – but she guesses he’s already grudgingly admitted to himself that they are both a little too long in the tooth for imprudently rolling around on what is, after all, a very hard surface.

The hands on her hips are insistent, though, as is the strong arching of his hips, and she’s happy to allow him that, letting him thrust up as she eases down. Those first moments, she finds, are always blissful – for both of them. His eyes are already tightly closed, and she emulates him without thinking, enjoying the incredible first sensations of being locked so deeply and intimately together. She likes the feel of him, likes the hardness of him, the depth he achieves, the raw, brutal masculinity of him… and then her body is willingly, naturally adjusting to the size and shape of him and a little of that first intensity starts to ebb – until he starts to move his hips again. Not for the first time, she’s grateful for his strength, his sheer physical prowess, because even beneath her he’s utterly determined to force his own rhythm – and Grace doesn’t mind one little bit.

She leans back, hands behind her to grip his thighs tightly, and he moves one hand from her hip to her breast, thumb working over her nipple causing a ripple of sensation through her entire body. She can feel the softest, warmest breeze on the exposed areas of her skin, and she can smell the grass and the earthier scent of the woodland. More, she can feel the sun on her face, and she can still hear birdsong. All of it adds an acute, erotic frisson to the experience, helping to remind her, perhaps, of exactly how wildly inappropriate the situation is.

She moans, eyes still tightly closed, and Boyd’s voice immediately cuts through her minor trance with, “Let go… Christ, woman, let go…”

Grace knows what’s he’s telling her. Boyd is not the only one with a few control issues. Even knowing him as well as she does, and as experienced with each other as they are, sometimes she still finds herself completely caught in a self-defeating trap of self-control and imagined propriety – and it doesn’t seem likely that he’s going to hold on long enough to let her work her way through it in her own time.

Yet, maybe he understands, because the hand on her breast moves between her thighs, seeking and finding, setting up an intense, complimentary friction to the strong thrusts that are causing far deeper waves of pleasure, and she can’t help crying out, not remotely bothered if there’s anyone close enough to hear her or not. She’s a long way beyond such worries. Irredeemably wicked, Boyd deploys yet another weapon from his arsenal – the power of his voice, deep and husky as it says, “Don’t think this lets you off the hook, either… You’re coming home with me tonight, Doctor, and I’m going to remind you exactly what it is you see in me… I’m going to carry you up the damned stairs and – “

Grace can’t suppress the shiver that goes through her, nor the whimper that precedes, “ _Peter_ …”

His eyes are open again and he doesn’t let up – nor does she want him to. “The things I’m going to do to you… The things you’re going to _beg_ me to do… Jesus…”

It’s all too much. The tension in her body is building towards an inevitable conclusion, all the different sensations blending into a darkly sensual maelstrom that’s just beginning to catch hold of her. Grace doesn’t know it, but her fingernails are biting sharply into his thighs as she starts to tremble uncontrollably.

Boyd’s ahead of her, just by a fraction, and he’s already roaring – spectacularly indifferent to anything but the compulsion of his own body – as she reaches the final edge and tumbles, equally spectacularly, into the searing, rapacious moments of wild, selfish release. She isn’t really aware of the final, discordant thrusts of his hips, nor of the hard, possessive grip he has on her hip. She isn’t aware of anything, not for those few incredible, dislocated moments. She isn’t even aware of dropping forwards onto him, head on his chest, and she certainly isn’t aware of the arms that go round her in a tight, instinctive embrace.

The real world creeps back slowly and gently, and eventually Grace is able to tentatively raise her head to glance around. She’s half-convinced she will discover an open-mouthed audience watching them with an appropriate level of shock and outrage, but there’s no sign of anyone. There’s just the grass, the trees, and the summer sun. And the man beneath her – who’s lying utterly still apart from the rapid rise and fall of his chest. His eyes are closed again, and he looks, she thinks, very much as if he’s never going to move again.

It’s always this way with them, and it always makes her smile in gentle affection. He’s always stunned and dazed, stupidly so; always far more incapable of speech or directed movement than she is. Grace doesn’t care. Normally, she simply tucks herself warmly into his side and strokes his chest softly until he finally musters the energy for some kind of coherent response. This time, however, she just eases herself closer until she can kiss him softly on the lips. His eyes flutter open, the wildness gone from their unfathomable depths, and he gazes at her until she says quietly, “Happy now?”

It takes him a moment, but when it comes the reply is a lazy, contented purr. “You have no idea…”

“Oh, I think I do,” Grace tells him, smiling. Carefully, she sits herself up, brushing away stray leaves and blades of grass. “Highly inappropriate behaviour, DSI Boyd.”

“I’ll give myself a formal reprimand later,” he tells her, stretching.

“Look at the state of you,” Grace says, amused.

“Look at the state of _us_ ,” he corrects her, sitting up.

Doing her best to remedy her dishevelled appearance, Grace asks, “Think anyone will notice if we turn up back at the office in completely different clothes…?”

“I’m afraid they will – our lot aren’t quite as dim as CID.”

“Pity.”

Boyd has got as far as buckling his belt, but his shirt is still hanging open. “I’ve got it covered.”

“You have?”

He gets to his feet, brushing down his jacket. “Oh, yeah. We’re going to be summoned to an unexpected meeting in about twenty minutes. One that won’t finish until long after Spence and Kat have sneaked off home.”

“You’re so devious, Boyd.”

“Thank you,” he says, extending a hand to help her up. “C’mon… we have an urgent appointment that may actually require blues and twos.”

“We do? Where?” Grace asks.

He gives her a look. “My bloody house, where do you think?”

Grace shakes her head. “Like I said – completely incorrigible.”

It takes them a few minutes, but once they are sufficiently tidied and groomed they start to head for the car again, pausing only to exchange the lightest of kisses. Without even thinking about it, Grace hooks her arm through his. “I thought we were going out to dinner?”

“We can go out to dinner. Later.”

“As if that’s going to happen,” she says dryly.

Boyd just grins. “You know me far too well.”

…It’s Epping Forest, on a bright, warm, sunny summer afternoon, and Detective Superintendent Peter Boyd and Doctor Grace Foley, both from the Metropolitan Police’s Cold Case Unit, are heading back to the former’s car, but this time, they are not arguing.

\- the end -


End file.
